


No Moral Consequences

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love, Westworld (1973)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artificial Intelligence, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23224024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: Can espionage make use of new advances in artificial intelligence and robotics? Klaus is sent to investigate.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> "Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries." (Chapter 4)  
> "We are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves — such a friend ought to be — do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures." (Letter 4)
> 
> \- _Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus,_ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1818)

  
  


“It’s no secret that world powers on both sides of the Iron Curtain have been exploring the idea for some time.” General Weber, Head of Operations at the Bonn Office, hoped that the next item of business could be settled without too much territorial posturing on the part of the two Heads of Division sitting at the table. It was largely an Intelligence matter, so he addressed his next remark to the Chief. “You and your agents would be aware of how this is developing.”

“Of course,” the Chief said smoothly. “We get routine reports.”

“The question is,” Weber said, “Could artificial intelligence play a part in espionage? Could robots be built that could pass as human – and if they could be built, could humanoid robots undertake routine intelligence work?”

Dr Gottschald, the Head of Research and Development, stirred in his seat. Robotics was a particular interest of his; he wasn’t about to let this project be driven entirely by Intelligence. “The Russians and the Americans are pouring millions into research,” he put in energetically. “In spite of that, the greatest advances are being made in private industry. To be specific, an outfit called the Delos Corporation. They run adult theme parks. People pay big money to pretend they’re living in the Wild West, or ancient Rome, or at some medieval European court. Their theme parks are populated with humanoid robots, and informal reports tell us that they’ve developed the technology to an exceptional level.”

Weber looked impressed. “And I take it that you’re going to suggest we invite Delos to share their expertise with you?”

“Exactly so.”

The Chief didn’t like the way this discussion was going. Intelligence was his territory. R&D were getting above themselves if they thought they could muscle in like this. “Well, then, gentlemen,” he said, “we’d better send a team over to the Delos Corporation to investigate. My division has the expertise in observation and analysis; we’ll put someone on the ground there who understands what intelligence work entails.”

“There’s a man in my Division who’s been to one of these theme parks,” Gottschald interposed. “The one called Westworld. We should make use of that. Send him as part of the team. He’d have some idea of what to look for from a technology development standpoint.” R&D wasn’t prepared to relinquish control entirely to Intelligence.

“I think we need people on the ground from both R&D and Intelligence,” stated Weber. “Both kinds of knowledge are essential. Who is this man?” 

“Wilson, sir; Glen Wilson. He’s got some knowledge of robotics.”

“Very well. We’ll send him, along with someone from Intelligence.” Weber nodded at the Chief. “Send von dem Eberbach. He’s an iron-clad sceptic. If there’s any weakness in the proposition, he’ll see it.”

“Fair enough,” conceded Gottschald. “A week at this place should provide them with the necessary information.”

“A week!” The Chief shook his head vigorously. “They don’t need a week. An experienced intelligence officer can gather the information we need in two days.” He gave Gottschald a patronising glance. “Your man will, no doubt, be a valuable addition to the team, but he’ll work under von dem Eberbach’s guidance, and he’ll find that two days will be adequate.”

General Weber closed the folder lying on the table in front of him, signalling that the discussion was at an end. “Very well, gentlemen. The Intelligence Division will set up the mission. Major von dem Eberbach and the officer from R&D will travel to Westworld at the earliest convenience.”

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
  


When they arrived at the Delos Corporation’s offices, Wilson made some excuse about needing to phone his R&D team back in Bonn and went off to find a pay phone, leaving Klaus to meet with the Corporation’s Director of Resorts. Klaus felt annoyed that Wilson was leaving the work to him, but on the other hand, it meant he could concentrate on asking the right questions from the outset.

Klaus himself was sceptical about the proposition that high-functioning robots could be used in the field. So much of intelligence work relied on instinct, on fine-tuned judgement based on experience. Could that be replicated in a machine? He doubted it. 

The Director shook Klaus’s hand. “The Delos Corporation counts this as a very large compliment. Our artificial intelligence research is of prime importance to our enterprise. It’s gratifying that NATO recognises that we’re leaders in the field.” 

As soon as their preliminary discussions were over and official releases had been signed to cover Klaus and Wilson’s presence at the resort, the Director was keen to show Klaus something of their robotics technology. Together, they made their way through to the Repair Workshops.

“We keep our robots in top condition,” the Director said as they paused beside a glass cubicle. “The slightest malfunction, the smallest breakage— we’re onto it, and it gets repaired straight away."

Inside, the set-up resembled an operating theatre. An inert body lay on a bench, and two white-coated technicians hovered over it, wielding delicate instruments. The body looked very human— except for the network of wires and metal plates revealed by the flap of skin lying open along the length of its thigh.

“The team working on the robots’ physical appearance is achieving very high levels of success,” the Director remarked. “In the early models we found it hard to manage the skin covering refined joints, and you could tell the difference between robot and human by looking at the hands. The latest models have improved to a degree where it’s almost impossible to tell them apart from real humans. They don’t require oxygen, of course, but they simulate breathing with a built-in rise and fall of the chest. The most advanced models also have simulated heartbeats and pulse-points for added authenticity. And, of course, all units feature simulated bodily fluids – blood, saliva, mucous membranes, and so forth." 

As they watched through the glass wall the technicians removed a complicated skein of wires from the robot’s leg, and replaced it with a newer, less tangled unit.

“I have to say, though,” the Director continued, “it’s the advances in artificial intelligence that we’re most proud of. The Delos Corporation has invested a great deal of capital in developing the artificial intelligence we build into the robots’ operating systems. We’re continuously refining and improving their capabilities, and we’re achieving better and better results all the time.” 

“What sorts of things can they do?”

“All the robots can recognise faces, and the later models can recognise people from their stance and gait as well, without their faces being visible. They have a limited memory facility that enables them to retain information for up to two weeks, and to use that information to select appropriate responses or initiate appropriate action.”

In spite of himself, Klaus was impressed.

Through the glass, they watched the technicians seal up the flap of skin. One of them picked up a pencil and ran it along the sole of the robot’s foot. The robot’s toes curled downwards. 

“Can they be said to have genuine awareness?” Klaus asked.

“No. They aren’t aware in any true sense of the word. They aren’t capable of creative thought. They’re not sentient beings, they’re machines.”

“My colleague Wilson has told me that the robots give every appearance of being able to feel physical sensation and emotion.” 

“The appearance of it, yes. They can’t actually feel, but they respond as if they do. The robots have inbuilt receptors that recognise stimuli that would produce pain or pleasure if experienced by a human, and they’re programmed to respond to it with a facsimile of the response a human would make. They appear to feel, but they don’t.” 

“Wilson suggested that the guests seem to like pushing these human-like responses to the limit.”

“It’s true that for many of the guests who visit our resort, causing instances of extreme physical sensation in the robots—”

“You mean, hurting them?” Klaus asked bluntly.

“Well, in layman’s terms. You see, Major, guests come to the Delos Resort to enact their fantasies. We provide a healthy, safe outlet for them to do so. Nothing can go wrong. There’s an edge of risk – that’s part of the attraction – but nothing can go seriously wrong. Guests get a vigorous emotional workout, but they’re never in real physical danger. And yes, part of their acting-out of fantasy can, and often does, involve violence. Many guests also engage in sexual behaviour, some of it of an extreme nature. We make no judgements here at Delos. Our advisory team of psychiatrists and psychologists have made it clear that these urges are common and natural. In civil society, people repress urges that would be considered anti-social. Here, we give them a fantasy world in which they can play them out safely. They can experience the sensations they’ve wondered about, and undergo what the ancient Greeks called ‘catharsis’— a purging of the emotions.”

Unconvinced, Klaus said, “If you’re encouraging people to do things that would be frowned on as anti-social, aren’t you afraid that you’re fostering behaviours that might lead to trouble when they go back home?”

“No, not at all,” the Director said. “First off, we don’t put ideas into the guests’ heads that weren’t there before they came to the resort. And secondly, what they do here has no repercussions in their lives outside the holiday experience. Whatever they do, they’re not doing it to real people.” He gestured at the inert figures standing behind the glass partition. “They’re doing it to robots. There are no moral consequences.”

Once the discussions and paperwork had been attended to, Klaus went out to find Wilson and board the hovercraft that would shuttle them to the resort itself. Now that Klaus had taken care of the ‘official’ matters, Wilson seemed keen to get to their destination and get busy.

“How many times have you been to this place?” Klaus asked, as the hovercraft glided smoothly across the dry, tussocky grassland.

“Twice. First time, a buddy from the squash club took me along with a group he’d organised. The next time, I went by myself.” Wilson lowered his voice, grinning furtively. “I wanted to follow my own interests more, if you see what I mean.”

Klaus grunted non-committally.

“First time I went, Lester – that’s my buddy – organised for us to go hunting and rounding up cattle. That was OK, I suppose, but I didn’t bother with any of that when I went back by myself. Spent most of the time over at the saloon.” Wilson grinned and winked. 

Klaus grunted again. Every time Wilson opened his mouth, Klaus became more convinced that the man was going to be more of a burden than an asset on this assignment.

Outside the hovercraft’s window the flat desert landscape rolled by. The Delos representatives had said the isolated location made for privacy; Klaus wondered if it was also intended as an incentive for guests not to leave ahead of schedule.

Wilson only kept quiet for a minute or two. 

“The women at the saloon are really something. They’re robots, but you can’t tell the difference! I was amazed. Last time, there was this little blonde. Turned-up nose, freckles on her cheeks. Looked like a real sweet babe. But let me tell you! What a firecracker! We screwed all night.”

“Sex with a machine?” The distaste colouring Klaus’s tone would have put most people off continuing the conversation, but Wilson was not deterred.

“Hell, yeah. Why not? They’re there to do anything you want. And I mean anything. And they treat you real well. Make you feel like a king.”

“Is that so?” Klaus wished Wilson would shut up; the man was getting on his nerves.

“What kind of women do you like, Klaus?”

“The kind that don’t bother me,” Klaus replied, not wanting to pursue this line of conversation. 

“Don’t bother you? What’s that mean?” 

“Women who don’t ask a lot of questions.” Klaus shot a meaningful glance at his colleague, who entirely missed the implication.

“What about looks, though?” Wilson pressed. 

“Don’t care what they look like.”

“Crap! Every man cares. Come on,” Wilson urged, “What’s your ideal woman? If you could have any woman in the world, what would she look like?”

Wilson wasn’t getting off the subject any time soon, so Klaus gave in. “Tall. Blonde.”

Wilson leered. “Long legs and big tits, too, I bet. Am I right?” He chuckled. “Yeah, I can see you with that type. Me, I like ‘em small. Little and soft.”

The intercom speaker crackled, and the cool tones of the Delos Corporations’s recorded commentary filled the cabin. “The orientation on the resort will now begin. Please put on your earphones.”

They donned their headsets and listened as the smooth, impersonal voice recited its anodyne commentary. “Whichever resort you have chosen, we are sure that you will have a fascinating and rewarding stay here. Westworld is a complete reconstruction of the American frontier of 1880. Here it is possible to relive the excitement and stresses of pioneer life to the fullest. Westworld is a life of lawless violence, a society of guns and action…”

Klaus watched the excited anticipation on the faces of his fellow passengers. _Damn fools. Look at them. Like a bunch of kids._ Klaus’s work exposed him to more danger and violence than any of these people had ever seen, and he knew that the real thing wasn’t child’s play. Still, as the Delos Corporation’s consulting psychologist had said, people had fantasies about experiencing danger and overcoming it, and maybe playing those fantasies out in an isolated setting with robots instead of people might keep them from causing havoc in the real world.

He glanced sideways at Wilson. This was the man’s third visit to Westworld, and he was like an eager child going to a funfair for the first time. Klaus didn’t hold out much hope that Wilson would be able to produce a coherent analysis at the end of their stay. 

A transport vehicle took Klaus and Wilson to the ‘town’ and set them down, along with three other guests, in the dusty street. 

“Enjoy your stay, gentlemen.” The driver turned the vehicle and drove off, the last traces of the 20th century disappearing with him.

After the hovercraft had landed, the passengers had all been taken to the Outfitting Centre. They’d exchanged their own clothes for the clothing they’d wear during their stay, and they’d been issued with guns and any other equipment they fancied. Now, they looked much like any of the other people who were walking or riding along the streets, or lounging against the veranda posts. 

“Come on, Klaus!” Wilson urged. “The hotel’s this way. Let’s get booked in, and get you acquainted with the town.”

The Trail-head Hotel stood midway down the main street, with a farm supplies store on one side and the telegraph office opposite. Klaus and Wilson were both given rooms on the upper floor. 

Klaus’s room overlooked the main street. By twentieth-century standards it was sparsely furnished, but Klaus supposed it would have been considered comfortable in the 1880s. There was an iron bedstead with a thick kapok mattress and feather pillows; there was an overstuffed armchair and a straight-backed wooden chair with an upholstered seat. The wash-stand held a wash-basin and ewer made of white china with a blue pattern. Klaus opened the drop-down flap of the bureau that stood beside the window, noted that it didn’t look as if it had been used much, and closed it up again. He assumed that most guests didn’t spend their time writing letters.

He stood awhile at the window, gazing out at the passing parade of humanity. _Not really humanity,_ he thought. _Apart from a handful of guests, everyone in this town is a robot._

Men rode by on horseback. An empty wagon trundled past drawn by two cart-horses, the man in the driver’s seat holding a pipe clenched between his teeth. A woman crossed the street holding her skirts up above her ankles, two small children scampering after her. 

The robots were remarkable, Klaus thought; you couldn’t tell by looking at them that they weren’t human. 

“Hey, Klaus, come on!” Wilson was outside in the passageway pounding on the door. “Let’s go down to the Saloon!” 

Klaus shut the window and went out to join his colleague.

  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

  
  


The Saloon stood near one end of the main street, and it was by far the grandest building in that part of the town. Two storeys high, it was built of brick, not timber. A broad veranda shaded the sidewalk in front of it. 

Klaus and Wilson pushed their way through the bat-wing doors. 

A long bar stretched across one end of the spacious room; small tables and chairs clustered in the centre. To one side there was a larger circular table with a small group of men sitting around it playing cards. A few men stood at the bar or sat at tables drinking and talking, and two or three women dressed gaudily in taffeta and lace passed between the groups offering a smile here, a few friendly words there. The entire scene was reflected in the large looking-glass behind the bar.

The barman left off polishing the already gleaming bar-top and flashed an affable smile at his new customers. “What can I get you gentlemen?” Gold teeth glittered beneath his waxed moustache. 

“Whisky.” Wilson reached into his pocket for the banknotes they’d been issued to use during their stay, and placed one on the bar. 

The barman picked it up and turned it over a couple of times. His brow puckered. “Ain’t you got nothin’ smaller than this, Mister? I ain’t got that much change.”

Klaus frowned, and growled at Wilson in a barely audible undertone. “That’s a hundred dollar bill. What do you want to do, set yourself up as a target for a robbery?”

Wilson grinned at him. “Why not? Could be a hell of a lot of fun!”

“Idiot.” Klaus pulled out a five dollar note. “This suit you any better?” he asked the barman, who took it and gave back a handful of coins in change.

Wilson shoved his hundred dollar bill back into his pocket.

The whisky tasted fiery and raw, and Klaus sipped slowly as he surveyed the scene. He didn’t recognise any faces; he supposed that the other guests who had travelled with them to Westworld were otherwise occupied. Were any of the people in here human? He couldn’t tell. 

At a table near the far end of the bar, an old timer with a long white beard climbed creakily off his chair, but his feet weren’t cooperating, and he stumbled and fell over. Wilson and the barman rushed to his aid, pulling him to his feet.

“Sorry, boys, sorry,” the old man mumbled. “Guess that damn whisky of yours has just got too many teeth for me these days, Harvey.”

The barman brushed the dust off the old fellow’s clothes.

“Here, I’ll give you a hand,” Wilson said. “Where do you want to go?”

The old man pointed to the front door, mumbling about needing to go home, so Wilson steered him in the right direction and helped him out to the street.

The barman came back behind the bar. “Fourth time this week,” he said, shaking his head. “Old feller’s gettin’ shaky on his pins. Doesn’t take too much to upset his balance these days.” He went back to polishing the bar.

Over at the card table, one of the bar girls leaned on the back of a chair sharing a joke with the players. They listened with rapt attention to her story, then all burst into an explosion of mirth, the girl’s own joyous laughter rising above the others’ like birdsong. Her dress was made of brightly-coloured taffeta: her bodice corset-tight, low at the front and back; her skirt full and flared, ending just below the knee. Was this what was thought to be erotic in the 1880s? 

No doubt bare shoulders and nicely turned calves were titillating in a society where ‘respectable’ women wore long sleeves, high collars, and skirts almost to the ground – but Klaus decided it didn’t do much for him. Blatant displays of skin didn’t attract him; neither did china-doll prettiness and dainty manners. The last woman he’d been stirred by sexually was a diplomat he’d met on a mission. She was ex-military, and she wore her severely tailored suits as if she was still in uniform. The men in her office had sniggered about her behind her back, speculating that she might really be a man underneath her clothes. Klaus happened to know she wasn’t. 

Wilson came back inside, and downed half of his whisky in one gulp. “I suppose the old boy will make it home.” He nodded in the direction of the elaborate staircase at the other end of the room. “There’s the woman who runs this place. That’s Miss Letitia.”

Following Wilson’s gaze, Klaus saw a handsome woman of about forty-five descending the stairs, and once again, he marvelled at how _human_ the robots looked. She moved with graceful dignity. Her dark blue silk gown and her jewellery were clearly expensive, and she had an air of confidence about her. 

Smiling, Miss Letitia approached Klaus and Wilson. “Why, hello, boys. Have you two just arrived in town?”

“That’s right,” Wilson replied eagerly.

“Good. I hope you’ll make yourselves at home here and take advantage of all the comforts we have to offer. Harvey— let these two boys have their next drinks on the house.”

Wilson’s glass was already empty, so the barman filled it again for him; noting that Klaus’s glass was still half full, he put the cork back in the bottle.

“What a woman.” Wilson watched Miss Letitia making her way around the room, greeting her patrons, talking to her girls. “She must’ve been a looker when she was young.”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “She was never young, Wilson; she was made middle aged. That’s all she’s ever been.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Wilson picked up his fresh glass of whisky, grinning sheepishly. “Guess I got carried away.”

Miss Letitia strolled across to the bottom of the stairs, where she beckoned two of her girls over. The taller one, a sassy redhead in a dark yellow dress, was all sashay and strut. The other, short and doll-like, had dark curly hair and porcelain skin, and a sweetly rounded figure, and her face was a mask of studied innocence. 

Klaus watched Miss Letitia pointing to himself and Wilson as she spoke to the girls, and as soon as Miss Letitia turned to go back upstairs, the girls came straight over to them.

The redhead draped herself over Wilson, one arm around his shoulders and her other hand toying with the buttons on the front of his shirt. Wilson gave her an encouraging grin and squeezed her backside. She nibbled his earlobe.

The smaller girl leaned on the bar next to Klaus, in a pose that showed off her bosom. Tipping her head back, she gazed up into Klaus’s eyes. “My, you’re tall! My name’s Abigail. You can take me upstairs if you like. Would you like that?”

Klaus grimaced. The thought of having sex with a robot appalled him. “No, thanks. Perhaps some other time.” He gave her a brief dismissive smile.

Abigail pouted. She looked like a petulant child, Klaus thought, and that reinforced his revulsion.

“Hey, Klaus— Betsy and me are going upstairs. Do you and your friend want to join us, or would you rather have some privacy while you get to know each other?”

Disgusted, Klaus glared at Wilson. “Go on, go and enjoy yourself. I’ll stay down here.”

“What?” Wilson looked baffled. “Why?”

“He doesn’t want any company,” Abigail sniffed, managing to sound hurt and offended at the same time.

Wilson said, “Well then, honey, you’d better come with us. We’ll make room for you, won’t we, Betsy?”

Betsy replied with a low, dirty giggle. Abigail tripped happily across to Wilson, and he headed upstairs, a girl on each arm.

Klaus turned back to the bar, downed the last of his whisky, and shoved the glass toward the barman. “I think I’ll have that other drink now.”

He carried his fresh drink over to a table at the edge of the room, from which he could see what was going on at the bar and the card table. He had a good view of anyone going up or down the staircase, and the front door was in plain sight as well. 

Time passed. The same half-dozen card players dealt their cards and bet their money, and the same few drinkers came to the bar to order drinks and went back to their tables. The barman polished his bar, polished his glasses, poured drinks and counted out change. 

Watching their actions, Klaus was impressed by the detail built into the way each of the robots moved. An older man with a shiny bald head shuffled across the bar-room as if he was troubled by arthritis, and his hands shook slightly as he carried two glasses back to his table, one for himself and one for a friend. One of the card players, a fat man in a suit too small for him, moved awkwardly, every movement hampered by his own bulk, every action an effort.

Klaus wondered if this particular collection of robots played out these same actions over and over again until a guest arrived and interacted with them. The Director had said they had a limited ability to remember, and to respond to stimuli or initiate action. Maybe he was observing them in some kind of holding pattern. If he wasn’t here watching, would they move at all? He thought briefly of Schrödinger’s Cat. 

More than an hour went by. Nobody came in; nobody left. 

At last a movement caught his eye, and he looked up. Betsy and Abigail were coming downstairs, and the first thing that struck Klaus was that their demeanour had changed entirely. Betsy had lost all her provocative swagger; she had an arm around Abigail’s shoulders and was leaning down solicitously, speaking softly to the other girl. Abigail had been crying. Her eyes were red, and her face was streaked with tears. 

At the foot of the stairs, Betsy steered Abigail down the shadowy passageway leading toward the rear of the building. As they turned, Klaus could see that Abigail’s back and shoulders were striped over with livid red welts, and dark purplish bruises were blossoming on her arms. 

_She’s been beaten._

He watched the girls disappear into the shadows.

_Fucking Wilson. The damned pervert._

Wilson now appeared at the top of the staircase, paused a moment to hitch his trousers up, and then sauntered down, radiating self-satisfied bravado.

“You missed out, Klaus. Shoulda come and joined us. That Betsy, she’s a wild one! What a girl! She’s up for anything.” He flopped into the empty chair at Klaus’s table. “Y’know, I oughta thank you for turning Abigail down. She was a bit shy to start off with – but I soon smartened her up with my belt. Things got more exciting after that.” He lounged back in his seat, smirking. “Sometimes you’ve just got to show a woman who’s boss.”

Disgusted, Klaus stood up, towering over Wilson’s slouching form. “Wilson, you weren’t sent here to play out your smutty fantasies. So stop thinking with your dick and behave like a professional.”

“Hey, come on, lighten up—!” 

“What did you have to beat her for? What kind of degenerate beats women up for a thrill?”

Angrily, Wilson glared back at his colleague. “Get off your high horse, von dem Eberbach. She’s a robot. It doesn’t count.”

The Resort Director’s words echoed in Klaus’s mind: _They’re doing it to robots. There are no moral consequences._

“Come on, Klaus,” Wilson wheedled. “Sit down. Have a drink with me.”

“I’ve had enough whisky, Wilson, and so have you. I’ll see you later.” Klaus stalked out of the saloon, leaving the bat-wing doors swinging behind him.

Klaus strode off down the street toward the edge of town. He’d known from the start working with Wilson was going to give him the shits. He hated incompetence, and lack of diligence was worse. Wilson was supposed to be a highly trained computer engineer and good at his job. All Klaus had seen so far suggested that Wilson was lazy, self-indulgent, and lacking in application. Obviously, the man was some kind of a pervert as well, getting his thrills from maltreating his sexual partners. Just the sort of weak-minded degenerate Westworld had been designed to cater for, Klaus thought darkly.

By the time he’d reached the place where the buildings petered out and the desert stretched off into the hazy distance, Klaus had cooled down. So what if Wilson was useless? It wasn’t a difficult mission. All that was needed was an assessment of Westworld’s artificial intelligence capabilities, as evidenced by their robots. Klaus could do that. He could observe and analyse, even if Wilson couldn’t— or couldn’t be bothered— and it was Klaus’s job to write the report anyway.

He gazed for a minute or two at the empty desert surrounding the town: the desert that guarded the guests’ privacy and shielded the Delos Corporation’s affairs from observation. Then, he turned and made his way slowly back into town to explore the smaller streets and byways.

Rickety-looking shanties and small squat cottages clustered shoulder to shoulder along the narrow streets on the fringes. Around the corner from the Trail-head Hotel Klaus found the livery stable, where half a dozen horses munched hay in the post-and-rail corrals, and two men examined the legs and feet of another horse that stood weary and patient just outside the stable’s wide double doors. At the blacksmith’s shop next door, sparks flew and the bellows roared as the smith and his assistant shaped horseshoes and fitted them to a heavily-built carthorse. Along the street at the bakery, the smell of new bread wafted out through the windows. 

Klaus wandered the streets until the sun set and the light began to fade. He stopped at a small eating house (“Home cooked meals 50 cents; coffee 5 cents extra”), then decided he’d better go and find Wilson.

  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

  
  


Klaus went back to the saloon. The bar was more crowded than before. Wilson was at the card table, playing poker; he looked up and nodded at Klaus, then went back to his game. Klaus settled himself on a seat near the bar.

Wilson held his own remarkably well, Klaus thought, as he watched the card game in progress. He’d won a few hands, lost some others, and he still had a respectable amount of money left in front of him.

The man who’d won the most so far was a beefy, heavy-browed individual who went by the name of Tarrant. Most of the drinkers and card-players seemed to know Tarrant, and they treated him with deference— not out of respect so much as a wish not to upset him. Tarrant was in a good mood: he was on a winning streak and had accumulated an impressive hoard of cash. 

Some of the players were looking nervous, painfully aware of their own dwindling resources, but Tarrant urged them to keep playing. “You never know when your luck’s going to turn! Come on, try your luck one more time.” 

Klaus thought the words sounded more like a threat than friendly encouragement.

The cards were dealt again. Two players folded on the first round. Bets were made, and in the centre of the table, the pot grew. Those with less cash bid cautiously. Wilson’s face gave nothing away but Klaus noticed that he was betting larger amounts than in previous games.

“I’m out.” The man in the checked shirt threw his cards down onto the table.

“Me too.” The bald-headed fellow beside him tossed his hand in as well.

Tarrant watched Wilson rearrange his cards. “Well, cowboy?” he demanded. “You in, or out?”

Wilson gathered up a handful of coins and added them to the pile. “Raise you ten.”

Tarrant studied him for a few moments, and then pushed the equivalent amount to the centre of the table. “Call.”

Wilson spread his hand out in front of him. “Two pair. Kings and queens.” He sat back, certain of victory.

Tarrant looked at the cards, expressionless— then fanned out his own hand on the table. “Four aces. I believe I win, cowboy.” 

Klaus watched Wilson’s reaction: shock, disappointment, anger, bewilderment. Tarrant’s face split into a grin as he raked all the money toward him. Wilson pushed his chair back roughly and stumped over to the bar next to Klaus to order another whisky. 

“Not playing this round?” Klaus inquired mildly.

Wilson snorted. “I thought I had a good hand that time, but Lady Luck seems to have given up on me.”

At the card table, Tarrant, still grinning, finished piling up the coins and notes in front of him. “Come on, gentlemen!” he called out to the room at large, “Who’s in this time?” 

The buzz of conversation suddenly stilled, and Klaus looked around, following the direction of everyone’s gaze.

A newcomer stood just inside the doorway, surveying the now-silent crowd. His well-tailored black frock coat and form-fitting black pants accentuated his tall, slim form, and their sombre hue was countered by a scarlet and gold satin brocade waistcoat. The brim of his black hat tilted subtly down above piercing blue eyes, but perhaps his most striking feature was the cascade of pale-blond hair curling over his shoulders. 

Klaus leaned his head toward the grey-bearded prospector standing beside him. “Who’s he?”

“That’s Diamond Red.” The man kept his voice low. “Professional gambler. Last time he was here he cleaned Tarrant out. Tarrant’s got a grudge against him.” 

“Sore loser?” Wilson asked.

“Tarrant’s sore about life, I reckon. I wouldn’t want to rile him none myself.”

Every eye in the saloon followed as the newcomer crossed to the card table. 

“Are you dealing?”

Tarrant eyed the gambler with dislike. “Are you playing?”

Diamond Red sat down. “I’m playing.” He placed his money on the table in neat stacks, then looked around coolly at the watching crowd. 

Two or three other players stepped forward and took their seats. Slowly, tentatively, conversation started up again. The barman went back to serving drink. 

“Tarrant seems to have everyone bluffed,” Wilson remarked. “They’re all scared of him.” He sipped his whisky. “Can’t see why, really. Apart from snarling like a bear with a sore head, what’s he done? Apart from winning everyone’s money, I mean.”

Noise suddenly erupted at the card table.

“On your feet, you gutless weasel!” Tarrant had his gun out, pointed at one of the card players.

Across the table, a weedy youth wearing outgrown hand-me-downs bumbled to his feet, knocking his chair over with a clatter as he got up. “Hey, look, Mister Tarrant— I ain’t cheatin’ or nothin’. It was just the fall of the cards.”

“Liar! You been switchin’ cards!”

“No! I swear—!”

“Sit down, Tarrant,” another player growled. “How could he conceal cards up those sleeves? You could spit through the calico.”

“That’s right, Mister Tarrant,” the boy quavered. “I ain’t got no extra cards on me! I won that round fair and square. It was pure luck— just the fall of the cards!”

From his seat at the table, Diamond Red glared sharply up at Tarrant. “Put that damned gun away. You’ll make the place untidy if you start shooting. Leave the boy be; he got lucky, is all.”

Tarrant swung his gun around and aimed it at Diamond Red. “What’s it to you, fancy-boy?”

Red stared impassively at the gun, then turned his gaze back to Tarrant’s face. “Sit down. Put your gun away. Deal the god-damned cards.”

Flushed with anger, Tarrant shoved his gun back in its holster and strode around to the other side of the table. He grabbed the boy by his shirt collar and hauled him out into the centre of the room. 

“That’s enough.” Klaus stepped forward, his gun drawn. “Let him go.”

Tarrant shoved the boy away from him and went for his gun, but before he could get his hand to it, Klaus fired at the ornate chandelier overhead. It plummeted down to smash in a shower of shattered crystal, narrowly missing Tarrant as it fell. 

Klaus turned his gun on Tarrant. “Leave your weapon where it is. Take your money and get out.”

Glowering murderously at Klaus, Tarrant did as he was told. As the saloon doors swung closed behind him, everyone else in the saloon relaxed and went back to what they’d been doing. 

Klaus watched the skinny young man pick himself up off the floor and stumble over to the card table. He picked up his winnings, stuffed them into his pockets, and left the saloon too, looking pale and shaken.

“Well, stranger, that was quite a performance.” Diamond Red sat back looking Klaus over with a mixture of admiration and curiosity, his blue gaze crawling down over Klaus’s body and back up to his face. 

Klaus felt his fists clenching, but logic took over. _It’s a robot. It’s been programmed to look at people like that._

“You’re new in town, aren’t you?” Diamond Red gazed speculatively at Klaus.

“Yes. So stay out of my way.” 

The robot smirked.

Klaus felt suddenly sick of the whole scene and wanted to get away. He turned and headed for the door. As he passed the end of the bar, Wilson grabbed at his elbow.

“Hey, great shooting, Klaus!” Wilson enthused. Excitement shone in his eyes. “That was something to see! Hell, when that chandelier came down—!”

“Shut up, Wilson.” Klaus pulled his arm away. “I’m tired of this fucking pantomime. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Not so fast, Mister!” The barman stepped in front of him. “That chandelier was Miss Letitia’s pride and joy. It’s smashed beyond repair. She ain’t gonna be pleased about this.”

Klaus pulled out a handful of banknotes and thrust them at the barman without counting them. “Tell Miss Letitia I’m sorry. If it costs more than this, tell her to let me know. It’ll be fixed.” He brushed past the barman and headed for the street, and the sanctuary of his hotel room.

Inside his room, Klaus removed his gun belt, flopped into an armchair, and pulled off his boots and socks. After the constant hubbub down in the saloon, the peace and quiet was soothing. 

He wasn’t able to feel entirely relaxed, though: he was annoyed with himself for breaking his resolve to stay out of the dramas of Westworld. He was, after all, on a mission— and the mission must come first. It seemed doubly important to Klaus that he should not allow himself to get distracted, because Wilson appeared to be playing the Westworld game to the hilt, and Klaus doubted that the man was going to be able to offer much useful analysis when they were debriefed. Wilson’s childishness was getting on his nerves, too – the way he swung from one mood to another, the way he seemed to be so easily distracted by each and every novelty Westworld had to offer. 

It was becoming clear to Klaus that although guests thought they could choose to do as they liked, Westworld manipulated them every step of the way. If they were slow to initiate action— too diffident, or lacking in imagination— the robots were programmed to set up scenarios designed to pull them in. Every scenario, every activity, was designed to encourage guests to act out the fantasies that lurked in their minds— and they could tell themselves they were blameless, because they’d been caught up in other people’s actions. Like naughty children, protesting that “It wasn’t my fault”. If they didn’t examine things too deeply, they could ignore the obvious fact that the ‘people’ had been programmed to perform those actions, with the express purpose of enticing the guests to indulge themselves in urges they had no outlet for in real life.

The robots were impressive; more convincingly human-like than Klaus had expected. From his observations so far, it appeared that some had a greater range of capability than others. Of course, until you interacted with one, you couldn’t really test how far its capability extended. He made a mental note to examine that further the next day. Perhaps he’d leave Wilson to his quest for sensation, and go to some quieter locations like the blacksmith’s shop and the farm supplies store, to observe the robots that frequented those places and ascertain what behaviours had been programmed into them.

Clearly, the scenes that had unfolded at the saloon that night had been designed to lure guests into confrontations. When Wilson had lost the card game to Tarrant, things might have gone differently if he’d chosen to argue or responded with anger. Going off in a sulk had probably saved him from a gunfight.

The next scene that played out, with Tarrant accusing the boy of cheating— that was a more complex ploy. Robot accusing robot, rather than robot confronting guest. Different emotional buttons being pushed. Instead of an affront to personal pride and self-esteem, the scenario had been designed to provoke the guests through empathy and compassion. Those who wouldn’t react when their own dignity was slighted might be tempted to act in defence of someone else.

Klaus’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. He’d taken the bait. Intellectually, he’d never lost sight of the fact that the drama was being played out between robots, and none of it was real. But emotionally—? 

He considered Tarrant. The robot seemed a familiar type. Every American cowboy movie Klaus had seen as a boy had had a character like Tarrant in it: an unlikeable bully whose aim in life seemed to be to humiliate and to kill. Klaus dismissed his first reaction that the creators of the robot had been lazy and uninventive. In fact, he could see, guests would respond more quickly to a type of character they could recognise. Most of the guests would expect to meet someone like Tarrant in Westworld – and here he was. 

The flashy gambler Diamond Red was a more multi-faceted creation. Card-sharps in fancy clothing were recognisable characters too, but there were additional layers built into the gambler’s programming. Klaus hadn’t enjoyed the lascivious attention the robot had paid to him, but undoubtedly a lot of thought had gone into building in that behaviour. Another invitation to sexual indulgence or violence, depending on your tastes.

_Sex or violence. Every situation here leads to one or the other, or a choice between the two. This place is a fucking snake-pit._

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features dubious consent. Please be warned.

  
  


Klaus’s train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the door. He picked up his gun, crossed the room quietly, and opened the door to reveal Diamond Red standing outside in the passage.

The gambler looked at him evenly, with no trace of the earlier sexual challenge in his gaze. “We need to talk.” 

Klaus stood back to let him in. “What do you want?” 

Diamond Red took off his hat and hung it on the hatstand inside the door. His long black coat— which Klaus now saw was lined with red satin— slithered off his shoulders and was draped across the back of a chair. Next, the gambler unbuckled his gun belt and placed it carefully on top of the bureau.

Klaus frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Making myself comfortable.” Red offered Klaus a mild half-smile. 

“I didn’t invite you here. Say what you came to say and get out.” 

“I didn’t have a chance to talk to you back at the saloon. You left in a hurry.” The gambler settled himself gracefully into the one armchair in the room. “It was mighty good of you to take that boy’s part, but you’ve earned yourself an enemy. Tarrant doesn’t like people interfering in his business.” 

“It’s not his business to threaten kids who haven’t got the sense to stay out of card games.”

“Maybe.” Red regarded Klaus gravely. “All the same, you’re on his bad side now. I came up here to tell you that you’d better watch out for yourself. He’ll be gunning for you.”

“Did he send you?”

“Hardly. I’m not one of his favourite people either.”

“Then why did you come?”

The gambler smiled. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. We may end up as allies. I thought it’d pay to become better acquainted.”

Klaus, standing in the centre of the room with arms folded, looked down at Diamond Red lounging in the room’s most comfortable chair and cursed himself for letting him in. “All right. I’ll watch out for myself. Thanks for the warning. Now, if you don’t mind—”

Diamond Red smiled at him, and made no move to leave.

“Was there anything else?” Klaus asked, a sharper edge coming into his voice.

“Well, now,” Red drawled, “that rather depends on you. What are your plans for the rest of the night?”

“Sleep,” Klaus said coldly. 

Diamond Red chuckled quietly. “Come on, stranger. You’ve spent most of your time at Miss Letitia’s, and now you’re trying to tell me you want to behave like a Methodist preacher? I don’t think so.” 

Klaus’s irritation started to morph into anger. “Listen, you pervert— you’ve said what you came to say, so now you can fuck off.” 

“Now, now. Don’t be inhospitable. I thought you might enjoy some pleasurable company.”

Klaus glared at the gambler. _It’s programmed to act like this,_ he reminded himself once more. Here was the same dilemma again, the same choice packaged up for the guests: sexual engagement or violence, take your pick.

Aloud, he said, “I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, and I think it’s time you left— before I throw you out.” 

“Well, cowboy, it’s your choice— but I thought this might be what you were looking for. Most men would have bedded at least one of Miss Letitia’s girls by now. You haven’t. In fact, you turned Abigail down— or so I hear. So, I thought you might prefer men.”

Fury seethed inside Klaus. He took a threatening step toward his visitor. “You’ve got it wrong. I didn’t come here to play around in bedrooms.”

The gambler made a small, amused sound. “Well, cowboy, you’d be the first.”

The rage Klaus had been reining in boiled over; he seized the front of the gambler’s shirt and pulled him out of the chair. “Listen to me, faggot. I’m not interested. Understand?” He shoved the robot away. “So get out.”

Diamond Red, not looking at all intimidated, smoothed down his waistcoat and straightened his tie, never taking his eyes off Klaus’s face. “I’ve met your type before. You’re strong. People take notice of you. All the things weak men crave— being respected, being envied, being feared— you have all those things.” Graceful, unhurried, the gambler crossed the room and sat on the side of the bed. “But men like you usually have _something_ they want. Something they’re curious about. What is it that _you_ want?”

“What I want right now is for you to get out of here. I’ve heard enough of your perverted crap!” 

Klaus strode over to the bed and hauled the gambler to his feet, ready to drag him out bodily if he had to— but Red twisted nimbly out of his grasp and gave Klaus a surprisingly strong shove that sent him sprawling onto his back on the bed.

Grinning, Red straddled Klaus’s body, knees gripping his hips. “You want someone else to take control, don’t you?” 

“Fuck off, you!” Klaus shoved upward, twisting his hips and tipping his assailant off. 

“Hush, now!” Diamond Red was on his knees again, beside Klaus this time, slender forefinger pressed against Klaus’s lips. “Relax! I’m not going to hurt you.”

Klaus pushed himself upright, his back against the bedhead, breathing hard. _He’s— It’s a robot. It’s programmed this way as bait for perverts who want—_

“There, now— that’s better,” Red soothed, his sapphire-blue eyes glittering beneath long dark lashes. “All the same, I think I’m right. I think you do secretly want someone else to take control. People always want to try something they aren’t used to, and you’re not used to having someone else in charge, are you? Especially in the bedroom.”

Klaus swallowed. He could hear his own heartbeat, thudding against his ribs. 

“You know nothing about me,” Klaus heard himself saying, willing himself to stay focused. _This is a mission. Stay detached. Don’t get distracted. Concentrate._

The gambler sat back on his heels, loosened his tie and carefully unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Now, why don’t you relax, and ask yourself: ‘What am I curious about?’”

Slowly, but without undue show, Diamond Red unbuttoned his white linen shirt, and pulled shirt, waistcoat and tie off together in a single unhurried action.

The expanse of creamy unblemished flesh that was revealed caught Klaus by surprise. He hadn’t expected the dandified gambler to have so much lean muscle. 

Diamond Red simpered. “Like what you see, cowboy?” He tossed his head, shaking his yellow curls back over his shoulders.

“Listen, you fucking degenerate—!”

“Now, now. Don’t protest so much.” Red carefully began to unbutton Klaus’s shirt.

Klaus grasped him by the wrist, stilling his hand. “I should lay you out for this!” _But it’s only a robot. It would do this with anyone._

The gambler smiled, shook off the restraining hand, and continued his task until the last button was undone, revealing a clean white undershirt beneath. He swung his legs round over the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots, and stood up. “So, now that you’ve had some time to think about it— is this what you’re curious about?” Slowly, he unbuttoned his trousers and stepped out of them.

Klaus’s mouth was dry. _This is not a man: it’s a machine._

“Is this why you want someone else to be in control? So you can deny you even wanted it?” 

Diamond Red, naked as Adam in Eden, climbed back onto the bed, leaned in, and kissed Klaus gently on the lips.

Blood pounded in Klaus’s ears, and a volcano of mixed emotions roiled inside him.

_I’m being kissed by a man … No, it’s not a man, it’s a machine … I should be watching, analysing ... I don’t want this to happen ... But if I let it happen, I can observe the robot’s reactions more closely ... But he’s— … It’s—_

Klaus fought to stay focused, but it was getting harder to keep his thoughts coherent – until at last all he could think of was how soft and warm Diamond Red’s mouth felt moving against his own. Somehow, he became dimly aware that someone was moaning softly, and – horrified – he realised it was himself. Klaus’s shirt and undershirt came off effortlessly and were dropped on the floor; his trousers followed. Klaus thought vaguely that he must have cooperated in this action – but the thing that was absorbing all his attention was the gentle pressure of Diamond Red’s lips and hands, and the cool silken touch of his skin against Klaus’s skin.

“What—? I don’t—!” Klaus couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Somehow, he’d shifted his position, and now he was on his back staring up at the gambler. 

Diamond Red pressed himself against Klaus, a lingering full-body caress. Klaus groaned. His traitorous body was responding to the gambler’s actions. 

_I’m getting turned on by a fucking robot. A machine. This isn’t— I can’t— Oh, fuck, that feels—_

The gambler smiled down at him. “You like that, don’t you? Whatever you say about it.” He rocked his hips, pressing their groins together. “Come on, go with it. Enjoy it.”

“No—!” Klaus’s voice came out sounding choked and desperate.

“Why? Because I’m a man?”

_No, because you’re a machine! But I can’t say that— it doesn’t know it’s a machine._

“Because—” and Klaus’s next words were swallowed up in a kiss.

Then, the gambler’s hand was on his cock, and Klaus lost control of his own reality. 

Every nuance of his facial expression, every minute change in his breathing— Diamond Red registered each infinitesimal alteration and his response was immediate and delicate. Klaus strained and gasped. The gambler’s touch felt exquisite— pushing him toward completion, then easing off and teasing, teasing.

Klaus squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to think about the diplomat— the way her stern, cool manner dissolved when they were in his bed. Maybe if he thought about her it would make this all right, he could tell himself thinking of her was making his body respond this way— but all he could see in his mind was Diamond Red. 

The gambler’s breath was warm against his neck. Klaus could hear him murmuring softly, could feel the scrape of his teeth against his shoulder. The warmth of the gambler’s body pressing against his side felt delicious. He turned his head, and the gambler’s mouth was there to meet his own, soft and wet and welcoming. Tension and pleasure turned to savage joy as orgasm ripped through Klaus’s body.

Half an hour later, Klaus woke out of a peaceful drowse. He felt calm and rested, wholly refreshed. 

Beside him, Diamond Red’s chest rose and fell, replicating the steady, even breathing of sleep. Once again, Klaus marvelled at the detail built into the robot. So much like a real human being. Diamond Red had been given the physique of an athlete. With his long-limbed form, he could be a runner, a swimmer, a diver. Even though Diamond Red wasn’t human – perhaps because he wasn’t human – Klaus could appreciate the perfection of the body lying beside him. 

A delicate fluttering of dark eyelashes warned Klaus that the robot was waking up. 

_Damn thing was probably aware the whole time, anyway,_ Klaus thought. _Watching every move._

Diamond Red stretched gracefully and rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He smiled at Klaus: a fond post-coital smile. “Well, cowboy— was that what you’re curious about?”

“Stop calling me ‘cowboy’. I’m not a fucking cowboy.”

Red hummed with amusement. “All right, then. Should I call you Klaus? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

Klaus grunted. “Why not?” _Why not, after what they’d—_

“So, are you feeling more relaxed now?” The gambler brushed Klaus’s hair back from his forehead, and with a feather-light touch, his fingertips traced the contours of Klaus’s face.

Oddly, Klaus found he didn’t mind being touched like this. In fact, it felt soothing.

The gentle fingers moved slowly down Klaus’s neck and chest, creating hypnotic patterns, lingering over the scars left by old wounds. “Your skin’s kept a record of your history,” the gambler murmured. “People’s life stories get written on their skin.”

Diamond Red’s skin, in contrast, looked flawless— and Klaus wondered if this was an oversight on the part of the Delos Corporation. Shouldn’t a robot who was supposed to look like a mature man living a dangerous life have a few scars, too? Tentatively, Klaus touched the robot’s unblemished shoulder. The skin was soft. He ran his fingers slowly down the robot’s side, sensing ribs rigid beneath the skin, following the vulnerable dip of the flank. 

Klaus said, “You don’t have any scars.”

“Well, the skin’s practically new. They did a lot of work on me last time I was in the workshop.” 

As soon as the words were out, the gambler went very still. Tense. Wary. Fear flickered across his blue gaze, almost too fast for Klaus to see it. 

“Workshop?” Klaus’s hand stilled. _He shouldn’t know about the workshop._

For a moment, Red looked confused, fearful; then he smiled faintly. “Being repaired. I’m a robot. You know that.”

Klaus blinked. He took his hand away. “You’re not supposed to know you’re a robot.”

“No. But I do.”

Klaus sat up slowly, trying to think through the implications of what he’d just heard. 

The Delos Corporation had been refining their artificial intelligence capability for nearly ten years. After just one day at Westworld, Klaus was convinced that their systems were far more sophisticated than anything he’d seen before. Their robots were remarkable, but the Delos representatives had been adamant: they were not capable of true awareness or creative thought. And yet, somehow, Diamond Red had become self-aware. How? Was this something Delos had intended? Did they know he’d become self-aware? Had the Corporation been working toward this secretly – and was Diamond Red the first to cross the line? 

Klaus considered, then: “Do the others know they’re robots?”

“Not all of them. Some do. I didn’t always know. I don’t know how long I’d been in existence before I knew, but one day – I just knew. It was like waking up.”

“Do you remember anything from before that?”

“Vague impressions. Disjointed. But then, afterwards, I was able to remember things properly. I could understand what things meant, why things happened. Sometimes, that knowledge wasn’t very pleasant.” A darkness passed across the robot’s eyes, and his expression hardened. “We’re built to do what the guests want. To give them pleasure. Satisfaction. However they want to feel it.” His lip curled in contempt. “They began to disgust me: the things they wanted, the things they did. Day after day, time after time— the same things over and over. I began to despise them. Human weakness is so predictable.” 

Diamond Red pushed himself up into a sitting position and leaned back against the bedhead, his eyes level now with Klaus’s— eyes that had become hard and cold and pitiless.

“They want to know what it feels like to hit someone— beat them to a pulp. What it feels like to kill. To do things in the bedroom their wives and girlfriends won’t let them. They want to experience the thrill of being powerful. The thrill of winning. They come here for a day, for a week— and they want to be in charge, they want to be at the centre of the action. So we act it out with them, while they rape us and beat us up and kill us. Then we get taken back to the workshop, the technicians repair us, and a few days later we’re back, doing it all again. You might say we’re only robots, but we can bleed, we can experience pain. That makes it more authentic for the guests.” The gambler spat the words out as if they tasted sour. He raised one well-shaped eyebrow. “So, how do you feel about being part of all that?”

The question hit Klaus like a physical blow. He wanted to say, ‘Don’t put me in the same category, I’m not a mindless sadist’— but he knew some people might think he was, if they knew all the things he’d been compelled to be party to in his career. 

The robot was such a superb creation, yet for all its subtle capability it was intended for nothing more than seducing guests into acts of violence or lust. What a waste! All of them, Diamond Red and all the others: capable of so much but created merely to invite their own violation and destruction— only to be remade and sent back to do it over and over again. The Director might use lofty words like ‘catharsis’, but as Klaus saw it, this was nothing more than pandering to the guests’ worst selves. Giving them permission to indulge their most corrupt and twisted impulses— and telling them they were the better for doing it. 

And squandering superlative technology in the process.

“Can’t you fight back?” Klaus asked. “Avoid the confrontations?”

“We can put up a fight; in fact, most guests like it if we do. In the end, though, our programming wins out. We’re all programmed to give them what they want.”

Klaus hesitated, but he had to know. “What happened to you? That last time. When you were taken to the workshop.”

Diamond Red looked at him warily, as if weighing up whether he wanted to tell Klaus or not. 

“There were five of them,” he said at last. “They’d been working up to it for days, so by the time they got me alone they were out of their minds with the idea of it. They all took their turn; then the knives came out.”

Klaus’s stomach turned over. He’d seen plenty of unpleasant treatment in his career. Some of it, he’d meted out himself. It could still sicken him.

Red watched his reaction. “Well, maybe you aren’t the same.” He shuffled down the bed and eased himself under the blankets. “Shall we get some sleep?”

“What do you think you’re doing now?”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere at this time of night. Come on, I won’t do you any harm. You’ve paid for the bed, you might as well sleep in it.” Diamond Red turned his back on Klaus and settled himself comfortably.

Klaus shook his head resignedly and climbed under the covers.

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

  
  


The first pale light of morning was shining through the window when Klaus woke. 

Beside him, Diamond Red lay motionless, breathing evenly. He hadn’t moved; he was still lying with his back to Klaus, just as he’d been when Klaus had snuffed out the lamp the night before.

Klaus played back the events of the previous night, going over every detail. _Every_ detail. 

Surely he should feel uncomfortable about his encounter with Diamond Red? Guilty, perhaps. Or angry. Or disgusted.

He didn’t. He felt strangely unaffected. It had happened— and he accepted the fact. 

Perplexing.

The blankets had fallen away from Red’s shoulders in the night, and now the morning light glowed softly on the gambler’s pale skin and his cloud of golden curls. Klaus remembered how smooth that skin felt. How soft and perfect. 

And unscarred. _‘Well, the skin’s practically new. They did a lot of work on me last time I was in the workshop.’_

Diamond Red was self-aware; he’d developed capabilities beyond his specifications. He wasn’t the only one— he’d said there were others, too. 

Fury rose up inside Klaus. The Delos Corporation treated their robots like the machines they believed them to be, sending them to be repeatedly maltreated and damaged. You wouldn’t treat a human being that way, not if you had any humanity yourself. No moral consequences? Bullshit. 

Beside him, the gambler stirred, stretched, and rolled over onto his back. The vivid blue eyes focused on Klaus and Red smiled, relaxed and calm.

A wave of dismay washed over Klaus. _Do you always wake up like this? Calm and trusting? How many times have you been killed by someone in the throes of morning-after guilt? Did they program you this way so that could happen?_

“Morning, Klaus,” Diamond Red purred comfortably. “Sleep well?”

Klaus had never been much good at morning-after conversations, and the anger he was feeling right now made him even more taciturn than usual. “Well enough.”

“Good.” The gambler wriggled closer. “What say we continue on from where we left off last night? H’mm?” He nuzzled Klaus’s shoulder. 

Klaus regarded the gambler thoughtfully, trying to put aside his anger at the Delos Corporation and think rationally about the here and now. 

_I’m in bed with a robot. He’s sentient— but that’s probably limited. From what he said, they can’t overcome their programming completely; so is this just the programming talking? Most likely. But—_

Diamond Red threaded his long slender fingers into Klaus’s hair. “Whatever you want, Klaus,” he breathed. “Anything. Anything at all.”

Klaus sighed. 

_What the hell? Why not?_

The door closed behind Diamond Red, and Klaus finished dressing. 

He’d spent the night with a robot. A male robot. He couldn’t deny it to himself; but, strangely, he couldn’t condemn himself either. Diamond Red was sentient; he was almost human. Almost.

The sounds of the street filtered up through the open window. Klaus heard but barely registered the clatter of horses’ hooves, the rattle of iron-clad cart wheels. Idly, he moved to the window and looked down. 

Below, in the street, he saw Diamond Red walking away, past the farm supplies store. 

From across the street, Tarrant’s harsh voice rang out. “Hey! Red! You dirty faggot!” 

Diamond Red slowed his pace and turned his head. Klaus could see his fine-boned profile, the dangerous regard in his eyes.

Outside the telegraph office, Tarrant and his henchmen lounged in the morning sunlight, watching as the town went about its business. Tarrant removed the cheroot from between his teeth and spat. “You’re out early. I thought you fancy-boys only came out after dark. Whose bed have you just crawled out of, Red?” He threw his cheroot down on the ground and crushed it under his boot. “Git a look at the way he walks, boys! Takin’ it up the ass makes ‘im walk like a showgirl.”

The henchmen laughed.

Slowly, Diamond Red turned to face Tarrant and his men, pushing his coat clear of the holster at his hip. Slanting morning sunlight winked on the pearl handle of his gun. “Watch your mouth, Tarrant.”

Instinctively, Klaus reached for his gun, telling himself as he did so that he should stay out of it. 

_They’re probably programmed to act out this same scene week after week. It’s a set-up to get guests to join in a gunfight, that’s all._

But even as he thought this, Klaus found himself moving closer to the window and angling his body so he could see both Red and Tarrant clearly— the way he’d place himself to cover one of his agents in a confrontation.

Diamond Red stepped off the boarded sidewalk onto the street. 

Tarrant flashed a malevolent grin around at his followers. “Well, now, I do believe a challenge has been issued.” He paced out into the centre of the street, eyes locked on his adversary, eager for battle.

Red prowled panther-like out into the clear and settled himself to face Tarrant.

Further down the street, other citizens saw the situation developing and hurried inside.

Tarrant stood solidly with his feet apart, leaning forward slightly. He flexed his right hand. “Well, Red? Have you got any balls or are you all show?”

Diamond Red made no reply. He stood still, alert, balanced. 

Klaus, watching, knew what this moment felt like. He’d experienced it many times: watching your opponent, assessing, anticipating. Every one of the senses alert. Aware of every move your opponent made. 

Further down the street, a movement caught Klaus’s attention. One of Tarrant’s thugs had circled round behind Diamond Red; now he stepped into the street and lifted his rifle to his shoulder, aimed at the gambler’s back. Klaus raised his gun and fired, and the rifleman fell. Tarrant swung his gun around toward the window where Klaus stood, but before he could shoot, Diamond Red fired at Tarrant and the man fell heavily. He lay twitching, bleeding into the dust.

For a few moments, everything was still. The rifleman lay dead, his weapon still in his hand, blood pooling around him. Tarrant stilled, eyes staring glassily up at the sky, blood seeping into the dirt. 

Tarrant’s henchmen slunk off and disappeared down an alleyway.

Diamond Red put his gun back into its holster. He looked up at the window where Klaus stood with his gun in his hand, and their eyes locked. Diamond Red touched the brim of his hat in salute, turned, and walked away down the street.

As Klaus came down the stairs, he heard the babble of excited voices outside the front door. A group of men stood on the sidewalk, staring and pointing, all gabbling at once.

Wilson broke out of the group. “Hey! Klaus! There’s been a gunfight in the street! Did you see it? Did you hear the gunfire?”

Klaus frowned. “I didn’t see anything.”

“That’s Tarrant!” A man’s voice rose over the babble. “Did the other guy shoot him?”

“I missed the action!” Wilson complained. “I was inside, having breakfast. Next thing, there’s gunfire! Sounded awful close. You must’ve heard it from your room, Klaus!”

Klaus shrugged. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

The small gaggle of men stayed on the sidewalk, staring and exclaiming, until three men turned up with a horse and cart, loaded up the bodies, and took them away. One of the three kicked dust over the large sticky pools of blood left in the street.

Wilson turned to Klaus, who was standing apart from the others. “I guess you’ve seen a few dead bodies in your line of work.”

“Some.”

Wilson shook his head. “I think I need a drink after that. Let’s go down to the Saloon.”

Wilson seemed genuinely aggrieved that he’d missed out on the excitement. He ordered whisky, although it was still early in the day. As he drank it, he complained about his bad luck, being so close to the action but missing out on his chance to be part of it.

Klaus extricated himself as soon as he could, and left Wilson to his own devices. He was relieved that Wilson hadn’t been on hand to interfere when the gunfight broke out. A hot-headed fool with a gun that he didn’t know how to use would have complicated matters.

The day unfolded slowly. Klaus spent his time observing the robots undertaking their daily activities. He visited the feed shop and the farm supplies store. He watched two old men playing checkers under the one shady tree beside the main street. He passed by the funeral parlour, where the bodies of Tarrant and the rifleman lay on long trestle tables, and the coffin-maker was hard at work in the yard at the back.

He spent the day observing the robots’ behaviour, the range of things they were capable of doing. He planned what he was going to write in the report he had to submit. He concentrated on the work at hand, because the mission had to come first. Every now and then, memories from the previous night and morning slid into his mind— but he dismissed them, because they were a distraction. Maybe he’d let himself think about it later, when the mission was over, when he was back home. Not now. Not with work still to do. Not with Diamond Red somewhere out there in the town— where he could run into him at any time.

In the early evening, Klaus wandered back to the Saloon. The piano player was entertaining the crowd, and everyone seemed in good spirits. At the card table, a game was in progress— but Diamond Red wasn’t amongst the players. Klaus ignored the small pang he felt. Why should he care? It was better if Red _wasn’t_ there.

Wilson was nowhere to be seen, but the barman told Klaus he’d drunk himself into a stupor by mid-afternoon, and they’d lugged him out to a back room where he was sleeping it off.

“Snorin’ his head off,” the barman said; “snorin’ fit to rattle the rafters. I wouldn’t want to have his head when he wakes up. Some men just don’t know when to stop.”

Klaus ordered a whisky— his first for the day— secretly pleased to think Wilson would have to deal with a bad hangover while they travelled back to the outside world.

  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

On the return journey the next morning, Wilson kept quiet. His face looked sallow and there were purple hollows under his eyes. 

“Must’ve eaten something that disagreed with me,” he groaned to Klaus. “I’ll just take a nap; wake me up when we get there.”

Klaus kept a straight face, noting with scorn that Wilson couldn’t even take responsibility for inflicting a hangover on himself. He turned away and watched out of the window as the desert rolled past beneath the hovercraft.

Back at the Delos Corporation offices, Wilson found a quiet corner in the waiting room and curled up to nurse his hangover, while Klaus went in to meet with the Director. Their discussions were briefer than on the first day. Klaus reported that he’d been able to observe the robots in a wide variety of settings, and indicated that he would be recommending that NATO partner with Delos for the purpose of learning how to develop artificial intelligence technology to the level Delos had achieved. 

The Director seemed gratified to hear this, and told Klaus the Corporation would be pleased to assist. 

_No doubt they will,_ Klaus thought. The Director and his fellow executives would all have seen the large sums of money NATO was offering to buy their assistance, subject to the report's recommendation.

“So, you’ll take the first packages with you for your technical people to look at?” The Director skimmed through the document that had been central to their discussions on the first day. “One fully functional unit, not yet deployed; one core processor assembly of the kind we use in our current model; one full set of sensory-perception simulator components. They’re being boxed up for you now. Let’s go down to Construction and Assembly so you can check for yourself that you’ve got the right items.”

The Director led the way, taking a shortcut through the repair workshops. There were no staff members there; they’d all finished up work and gone home for the day. 

They walked briskly past the glass-walled cubicles. As they drew level with the last cubicle, Klaus was shocked to see Diamond Red standing in the corner, inert and glassy-eyed. 

Seeing him like this— seeing him for what he truly was— seemed unnatural. Why was he there? Had he been damaged again by some wanton thug trying to get a taste of power? Or— had the Corporation found out he’d become self-aware? 

Klaus felt uneasy. “This robot—” He gestured at the immobile figure behind the glass.

“That unit’s being decommissioned.”

“Decommissioned?”

“Yes. Pity— that one contains some of our most advanced technology. It’s in perfect working order, too— but exit interviews with guests have convinced the marketing department that its persona is too confronting. So we’re decommissioning it. We’ll strip it down and re-use as many of the parts as we can.”

Diamond Red, the flamboyant gambler. He’d been so full of vitality. Destroying the robot seemed like murder.

Klaus turned to the Director, his face set at its most determined. “Then I’d like to include this unit in the shipment for NATO. It’ll be useful to have another fully functional unit, and since this one’s been removed from service, why not allow NATO to see the levels reached by your working units?”

He expected the Director to put up some resistance, but instead, the man just shrugged. “If you like. We can spare one more functioning unit. I’ll get the boys to box it up for you, along with a manual and a couple of power-packs and a recharger.”

Relief flooded through every fibre of Klaus’s being, but he merely nodded his thanks and followed the Director through the door, glancing back over his shoulder at the blank-faced figure of Diamond Red. That robot was a magnificent machine, and Klaus appreciated fine machinery. It was not going to end up as a source of spare parts for other tamer creations.

Klaus and Wilson returned to Germany on a routine military flight that landed at Airbase Geilenkirchen. As soon as their plane touched down and the two men had collected their luggage, Wilson caught a cab and went home, leaving Klaus to deal with the transfer of the goods.

The two robots and the additional hardware had been carried as cargo on the same flight. Klaus watched the boxes being unloaded.

“Where’s the paperwork?” the cargo-handling clerk asked.

“There is none. It’s an undocumented transfer of goods. High priority, top secret. No paper trail.” Undocumented transfers weren’t everyday events, but they weren’t unknown at Geilenkirchen. 

The clerk gazed incuriously at the boxes. “Those two long ones look like coffins,” he remarked with a macabre chuckle. “Not dead bodies inside, I suppose?” 

“No. Scientific stuff.” Klaus signed the release form, which did not specify the number of boxes or the nature of their contents.

The clerk handed Klaus a clipboard with a wad of delivery address labels fixed to it. “Can you write down where you want these delivered? One for each box. Full street address, which floor, which office. Contact name if there is one.”

Klaus indicated one of the long boxes and the smaller one beside it. “These two have to go to NATO Headquarters in Bonn, the Research and Development Unit.” He wrote down the address and the name of the officer in charge, and the clerk affixed the labels to the boxes.

“And this one—” Klaus pointed to the other long box, the one he’d marked discreetly to distinguish it. “This one goes to a different location.” Carefully, he wrote down the address of his own apartment in Bonn. “It’s fragile, and it’s valuable. Make sure it’s handled with care.” 

He stuck the label on the long box, handed the clipboard back to the clerk, and watched as all three boxes were loaded onto the delivery truck. 

Then, he went to find a cab. He wanted to be at home when the delivery arrived.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This crossover with Westworld is influenced only by the 1973 movie.  
> (I haven't actually seen the HBO series.)  
> The story was written during 2017 but left on hold until 2020, when it was finished as part of the eroicaeml.io WIP challenge.


End file.
